


Submerged

by Daegaer



Series: For Art's Sake [19]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: 1920s, Art, Artists, Bathing/Washing, M/M, Painting, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1954377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1920s London, Crawford attempts to do some preliminary sketches for a speciality painting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Submerged

**Author's Note:**

> Witten for the Suddenly Sex Tentacles scenario in the Oh No U Didn't Challenge in theSummer 2014 Weiss vs Saiyuki Battle.

The client has asked for a theme of _Cleanliness_ , and so, one mid-afternoon when everyone else in the house is out at work, Schuldig and I go down to the next landing to the bathroom, and run a bath. As it fills, he empties a jar of cheap bath salts in, giving the water a strange, oily sheen, and filling the room with a strong scent of gardenias.

"Not too full," I say, "I'm not being paid to paint water."

"All right, all right," he grumbles, and undresses. He steps in, hissing a little as he sits down. "It's cooking my balls. I'm fucking suffering for your art."

I ignore this, as laughing will only encourage him to say outrageous things, and sit carefully on the edge of the bath. He lifts a foot out and pokes me, just, it seems, for the sake of making me wet. I toss the sponge to him, and open the sketchbook.

"Try, hmm, something like you're in an advertisement for luxury toiletries or cosmetics."

He arches his back and neck, holding the sponge against the hollow of his throat as if it is a powder-puff, a trail of water trickling from it down his chest. I start sketching.

"I need to move," he says after a while, "I'm getting a crick in my neck." He stretches and slides down into the water. "Is that really going to be what the buyer wants? I mean, wouldn't he be happier with me frigging myself in the bath or something like that?"

"Probably, but do you have to put it like that?" I sigh.

He sniggers, and sinks lower, closing his eyes. "Here, I'll redeem myself by posing as Ophelia." He opens his eyes again and laughs at me, and I know he has caught me looking surprised. "You're always so astonished that I've read things. I should be offended."

Before I can answer, there is a knock on the door. We both freeze, then Schuldig sits up, very quietly, gesturing to me.

"Excuse me? Will you be long?" a woman's voice says through the door.

"No," I call back, feeling my heart hammer. _Go away_ , I think, _Let us get out of here!_ "Not long now."

There's a pause, and then, "Sorry, who is that?"

"It's Mr Crawford, from the next landing up," I call.

"Oh. I thought I heard someone else – never mind. It's Miss Shaw – do you think you'll be out in about ten minutes?"

"Yes, definitely!" I say cheerfully, glaring at Schuldig, who has pressed his hands over his mouth to stifle laughter.

"Thank you!"

I listen to retreating footsteps and I think, I _think_ I hear her going down the stairs. I wait an agonizing minute more to be sure, and then grab a towel.

"Quick!"

Schuldig jumps up, towels himself off roughly as the bath drains, then steps out onto the floor and wraps the wet towel about his waist, gathering up his clothes into a jumble in his arms. I open the door and peep out, checking that the coast is clear, and we run up the stairs, leaving only wet footprints and the strong, artificial smell of gardenias behind.

Safely back in my rooms, Schuldig dresses, leaving himself barefoot, and pads about, choosing what we will eat for lunch. I sit at the table, looking at my rough sketches.

"You know what would be in there if Silvia was doing this painting," he says, grinning over at me. "There'd be a naughty monster in the bath!" He undulates his arm at me like a tentacle, and goes back to spooning coffee grounds into a pan.

I take one last look at what I drew in the bathroom, and turn to a blank page. I draw hurriedly, roughly, remembering Schuldig poking me with a wet foot, how he straightened out his leg. The lines on the page take shape, Schuldig, his head thrown back and back arched, as he posed, but now tentacles reach from beneath the water, one wrapped around his waist, the tip of another playing at his lips that are parting in apparent ecstasy. One leg is pulled out and straight by a tentacle wrapped firmly about the calf, while another of the monstrous appendages explores its captive's groin, working at him mercilessly. A faint shadow indicates a body beneath the water's surface, ready to rise and work its will upon the form held helpless by its limbs.

I jump slightly as Schuldig leans against my back, looking over my shoulder.

"That one," he says. "Do that as the painting."

"It's not really what the buyer wants, it's not about cleanliness any more."

"Put a bar of Sunlight soap in each tentacle."

I laugh, which is what he wants.

"You like painting myths and strange creatures," he says, "you can put them in these pictures too. Just because this work isn't something you want the whole world knowing about, it doesn't mean you can't make it bearable for yourself, something you can even like now and then. Now – eat those sandwiches and tell me they're the best you ever had."

I look at the sketch of him, sacrificed to a lustful sea-monster, and reach for a sandwich. I could make this painting more than an embarrassing, dirty scrabble for money. It's an intriguing thought. I watch Schuldig pouring the coffee, his hair drying into untidy peaks, at ease walking barefoot in my rooms and am glad he exists at all, let alone that he is here. He is as rare and strange in himself as ever I could make him in my art.


End file.
